by Henry Hack
I didn’t stick around to help anybody. I assumed all three of them were dead. I mean blood was spurting out everywhere, like in the movies. Everything had gone so fast, and now I was in full panic mode. I hustled out of the bedroom trying to close the door on that horrible sight. The copper-penny smell of fresh blood mixed with a flowery smell of body powder or perfume deep in my lungs sickened me. As I turned to run for the front door I heard it – loud and piercing over the deafness and ringing in my ears caused by the loud gunshots – the sound of a baby crying coming from down the hall.
Oh, my God, what have I done?
TWO
Because of the timeframe of the murders, the story had not appeared in the Sunday morning papers, but it was all over the six o’clock radio and TV news stations. My stomach churned as they identified the victims as Andrew Simon, age twenty-five, a Nassau County Police Officer, and his wife, Veronica, also twenty-five, a school teacher in Franklin Square. “Their six-month old baby son, Michael, was uninjured, and is now in the care of relatives,” the announcer on Channel Four said. “The perpetrator, who apparently acted alone, was also killed at the scene during a shoot-out with Patrolman Simon. He was a white male, but his identity will not be disclosed pending notification to his next of kin.”
The perpetrator who apparently acted alone. I breathed a deep sigh of relief when I heard that, but reflected back on that terrible scene. I had fumbled with the light switch. No gloves. I got shot. Why didn’t I try to grab the gun out of Pete’s hand? Was some of my blood left there on the floor? Could they distinguish mine from the others? My shirt! I retrieved it from the back corner of my closet, unfolded it, and examined it carefully. The bullet had torn through the left sleeve and there was blood soaked all around the tear. I got the scissors from the bathroom and cut off the bloodied sleeve. I diced it up into small pieces and flushed them all down the toilet. Later on I put the rest of the shirt in with the kitchen garbage and took the bag, my usual chore, out to the garbage can.
On the ten o’clock news, the police identified the perpetrator as Peter Selewski from Richmond Hill. “Selewski’s car was found around the corner from the house,” the announcer said, “confirming this burglary-homicide was indeed a one-man job.”
I breathed another sigh of relief until the announcer further said, “Detectives from the 105 Precinct and Queens Homicide will be speaking to the friends and associates of Selewski for more information, as well as thoroughly canvassing the entire neighborhood where the murders took place.”
It was three agonizing days before the detectives got to me at the A & P. I tried to keep my nervousness under control as I told them the only association I had with Pete was at work, and we didn’t socialize as he was a couple years older than me. I said I hadn’t seen Pete that night after work and went to the movies with friends and was home, in bed, by eleven. The manager confirmed Pete was a good worker, but had slacked off recently. The detective then said, “Did you know he was a drug addict?”
He said this in front of all of us, all of Pete’s fellow workers, and it was obvious they were all shocked, including me, as I feigned surprise. The manager nodded and said, “I guess that explains it. What a tragedy for everyone.”
After the cops left, I went back to work in the basement of the store when, out of the blue, another fear hit me like a hot thunderbolt. Pete’s car! Would they find my fingerprints on the door handle when they examined it? But I had never been fingerprinted, and unless they came back and asked for everybody’s prints, I would be home free.
That night I pondered over my situation long and hard. I had to get out of this neighborhood – fast. And that was exactly what I did. One week later I graduated from Bishop Loughlin High School. The next day I was at the Marine Corps Recruiting Station in Jamaica. I would be eighteen in two weeks on July 8, so my parents had to sign the papers. They did so gladly, my father saying, “I’m-a proud of you, Joey. You serve your country like me and your two brothers did. I love-a you, son.”
. . .
The date set for my entrance into the Marines was July 15. I graduated on June 25 and quit my job at the A & P the next day. I had twenty days of freedom left, and I spent them in fear and trepidation, always looking over my shoulder, always awaiting the dreaded knock on our door. The cops never came back to visit me, and I knew from my friends they checked out my story for that night. My wound had healed up cleanly, but I didn’t want to explain it at a USMC physical exam. Like a lot of my buddies at that time I made the subway trip to Coney Island, and for twelve bucks, got a large tattoo to cover it up. And, deservedly, it hurt like hell.
I guess my Catholic guilt prompted me to join the Marines rather than another branch of the service. They had the reputation for being the toughest, and the tougher, the better. Self-flagellation, I figured. When the day came and the good-byes were said, I reported in and was soon on the bus to Parris Island – in July. Good, the hotter the better, and the more I could suffer and do penance for my part in that awful crime. The word penance triggered something in my mind as I rode on the rickety bus toward my destination. I had been so involved in worrying about being caught by the cops I had completely forgotten about the moral aspects of my actions. Was I guilty of a sin by my complicity in the crime? And I was harshly reminded of that crime whenever I heard Little Darlin’ or Bye, Bye Love on the radio, or heard a baby cry, causing the events of that night to crash through my head like a freight train.
Over the next few hours I searched through my mind for the knowledge that twelve years of Catholic teaching and education had given me. I knew I had committed some type of sin, but couldn’t nail it down. I figured I’d have to go to confession and lay it all out to the priest, but I was not ready for that confrontation right now. I hadn’t intended to steal anything. I hadn’t intended to kill anyone. I was forced into the situation against my will. But there were two dead people and an orphaned child left behind, and I knew they would be in my mind and dreams forever, like three bloody hundred-pound anchors, dragging me down into the abyss of hell.
. . .
After being screamed at and humiliated as soon as we got off the bus, we were given our uniforms, underwear, bedding, and the famous head shave. The next morning I, and 79 other sleeping recruits, were awakened at 5:00 a.m. by the sounds of shouting and the banging of spoons on a large metal garbage can. Welcome to the United States Marine Corps. We snapped to attention and met our drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Randall J. Hobbs, from somewhere in the deep South. When he came to my place in line, he looked down at his clipboard and screwed up his dark-brown face into a sneer. He leaned into my face, not more than two inches away, and shouted, “Mastronunzio? What the fuck kinda Guinea name is that?”
I didn’t know if I should answer so I continued to stand at rigid attention, eyes straight forward, trembling in my new boots. He screamed, “Giuseppe Mastronunzio, what the hell do you have to say for yourself?”
“Uh, sir… Sergeant Hobbs, they call me Joey, or Noonz,” realizing I probably shouldn’t have said that, or anything.
But, thankfully, the D.I. smiled and said, “Joey, I like that. Short and sweet. Better than fucking Giuseppe. And I like Noonz, too, but we gotta keep it somewhat like your real moniker.” He touched his hand to his chin as if in deep thought and finally said, “Joey Nunzio, that’s who you’re going to be in my Corps. I ain’t writing no Mastronunzio on my reports, and I ain’t burdening our tailor with trying to figure out how to sew that long-ass moniker on your uniforms. Are you okay with that, Nunzio?”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant!” I shouted back.
“Excellent, but let me remind you of one more thing.”
“Yes, sir!”
He got his square-jaw again up close to my face and said, “You a Catholic boy, Joey?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“I wish to remind you, whatever your name, although your soul belongs to Jesus Christ, your ass belongs to me and my beloved Corps. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, Sergeant.”
Welcome to the United States Marine Corps, Joey Nunzio.
. . .
The next day we had written aptitude tests and complete physicals and medicals including the drawing of a vial of blood. Then we had to fill out a whole bunch of paperwork, and when we were done, Sergeant Hobbs yelled for us to line up in two columns. “We got your blood, now we’re going to get your fingerprints, you maggots.”
A chill went down my spine and I wanted to protest, but kept my mouth shut tight. Amazingly, so did every other member of my platoon. We had all learned never to say anything unless asked directly by Sergeant Hobbs. We all got up as ordered and Hobbs smiled and said, “In case you degenerates are wondering, the blood is for typing, so we can put that on your dog tags in case you need a transfusion, and the fingerprints are for identifying your bodily remains after you’ve been blown to bloody pieces while fighting for our wonderful country.”
What a lovely picture the dear sergeant had painted on our young brains. The next day our training began in earnest, and during the course of the next twelve weeks, I pushed myself to the limit and over it, if I could. I never back-talked Sergeant Hobbs, and always paid attention to his instructions. I slept like a baby from sheer physical exhaustion, but during my waking hours, in what little down time we had, I prayed for the souls of Andrew and Veronica Simon and that their young son, Michael, would have a happy life. I also prayed for Pete Selewski, a once good guy who had succumbed to a terrible habit. Maybe he was a victim in this crummy scheme of things, too. And I always kept an eye out for a surprise visit from a couple of NYPD detectives saying, “Sergeant Hobbs, we understand you have the fingerprints and blood type of a suspect in a case we are working on…”
.
. . .
At the end of eight weeks, sixteen guys in our platoon had been sent home for various reasons. It seemed the rest of us would make it, and Hobbs began to loosen the reins a bit on us. It was obvious the purpose of our training was to make us into first-class, cold-blooded killers. “A Marine and his rifle,” Hobbs quoted to us incessantly, “is the greatest fighting machine in the world, bar none.” And when our recruit days came to an end we believed it. A couple of days before graduation, Hobbs pulled me aside and said, “Are your folks coming to the ceremonies?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“How do you think they’ll feel when they learn your new name?”
He was grinning broadly and I said, “I don’t think we should tell them about that right now, Sergeant. But I have grown fond of it, and may make it legal some day.”
“Listen, Noonz, you’re a fine Marine, and the tests show you can succeed in several specialties after your six weeks of advanced infantry training up in Lejeune. Think about it. I can give you a push for whatever you want to do.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Much appreciated, and I will think about it.”
My parents came down to Parris Island and one of my brothers, Leo, whose real name was Leopoldo, also showed up. Leo had been a Marine years ago, and after the ceremonies he poked me in the ribs and said, “What did your drill instructor think of your name?”
“I am now Joey Nunzio, compliments of the Corps.”
“And I was Leo Mastro. Don’t worry, it’s not a legal change, only for USMC purposes.”
I had already considered a legal name change anyway, but not to anything that resembled my real name in any manner, for obvious reasons. They now had my blood type and fingerprints on file, and I was more than a bit worried about a future knock on my door with a grim-faced detective on the other side asking to have a few words with me.
I completed my advanced infantry training at Camp Lejeune and was now a bonafide, certified killer for my country. I hoped I would never have to fire a weapon again after I left the Corps. Oh, I was a patriot through and through and wouldn’t shirk my duty, but I had seen deaths by gunshot up close and personal already, and that was more than enough for one life. I was now devoted to the Corps and equally devoted to my Catholic faith. All throughout my training I attended Sunday mass, and prayed for my family and friends, but most of all I prayed for the happiness and success of the orphaned infant, Michael Simon. I couldn’t, however, bring myself to enter into the dreaded confessional booth just yet.
The MOS – Military Occupational Specialty – list was detailed and offered a huge variety of choices. I had the germ of an idea as to what profession I would like to follow after my enlistment was up, but was fairly certain I needed some type of college degree to be considered. I chose aircraft repair and maintenance for two reasons – job availability and money. I knew from living in Queens, right in the middle of two busy airports, LaGuardia and Idlewild, that they were always looking for help. And with the advent of the jet age, I figured the number of jobs would only increase. I needed to make a living, a good living, to pay for tuition in night school. But did I want to go back to Queens, I wondered, as my blood type and fingerprint card flashed through my mind?
True to his word, Sergeant Hobbs pulled the right string, and I got my first choice of MOS in aviation. I had a few days off and got a lift from Camp Lejeune down to Parris Island bearing a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels. Hobbs had dismissed his newest platoon of ragged recruits minutes before and returned to his office where I found him after nearly breaking my fist knocking on the goddamned door jamb.
“Come in you maggot pussy!” he screamed.
I went in, brought myself to full attention, and saluted him. I said, “Maggot pussy Joey Noonz reporting and bearing gifts, sir!”
He laughed and said, “Get your sorry ass in here, Mastro-fucking-Nunzio. Let’s see here what y’all have brought.”
I handed him the package and he grinned when he saw the two half-gallon bottles of JD. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, “the dumb Guinea has learned well. On the rocks, okay?”
“Perfect, Sergeant,” I said as he got the ice from his small refrigerator and poured us a generous splash in low-ball glasses that appeared from his bottom desk drawer.
We toasted the Corps and then Hobbs got serious. “Listen, Joey, I was happy to help a good Marine. Now listen to this old-timer. Before your hitch is up, the Corps is going to offer you a good package to re-up. Don’t take it. Negotiate for a better deal.”
“I’m listening, Sarge.”
“I guarantee you’ll be at least a corporal by that time. They’ll offer you another stripe and a signing bonus, five or six hundred bucks, for a four-year hitch. Tell them no. Tell them you’ll trade them the stripe, and the dough, for a shot at college and a future slot in OCS.”
“You think I can be an officer?”
“I would be proud to snap off a salute to Second Lieutenant Giuseppe Mastronunzio, Marine.”
I was flabbergasted. “Thank you, Sarge,” I said. “Thank you for everything. I will consider, carefully, all your advice.”
We knocked off half of one of the bottles, and Hobbs luckily found someone to drive my drunk ass back to Lejeune.
. . .
The three years flew by and I became a qualified aviation mechanic and proud of my new skills. As Sergeant Hobbs predicted, they offered me, Corporal Nunzio, a sergeant’s stripe and $500 for re-upping for four years, but I had already made up my mind to leave the Corps. I was somewhat confident I had found my future vocation, so I politely declined. The captain I was meeting with immediately countered with, “Let me offer you another choice. A third stripe, paid college tuition, and a seat in OCS after you successfully complete your first two years of school.
”
Now that made me think a bit, especially since I would need a college degree anyway for what I wanted to do with my life. I thought for a whole minute. “Thank you, Captain,” I said. “Both offers are more than fair, sir, but I must decline them. I’m going to leave the Corps.”
“I believe you’re making a huge mistake, Corporal.”
“Could be, Captain. God knows, I’ve made them before.”
One week later I was honorably discharged and left Marine Corps Aviation Station New River, NC on a Greyhound bus to Florida. After visiting my folks and my brother, Vinny, and his wife, who lived not far away from them, I asked mom and dad if I could stay with them a few weeks while I sent out job applications. “Stay as long as you want, Joey,” my mother said. “We gotta fatten you up with some-a real food. Lasagne sound-a good tonight?”
Ah! Home cooking again, but it wouldn’t last long. One week after I sent out the job inquiries, I got two responses and they wanted me for an interview “at my earliest convenience.” The problem was the airlines who wanted me were located at Idlewild and LaGuardia. I scheduled the interviews for two weeks away hoping I’d get another offer from somewhere else, like Atlanta, Dallas or Chicago. When the two weeks passed by, and there had been no responses from the airlines in those cities, I packed up my gear, kissed my folks good-bye, and flew back to Queens. It seemed, for now, I had no other choice. Queens. The scene of the crime. The images of the bloody, murdered bodies of Andrew and Veronica Simon flashed through my mind, and I distinctly heard the sound of infant Michael Simon crying his poor, little eyes out. And I feared the cops would be waiting to arrest me as soon as I stepped one foot off the plane.
THREE